Chapter 18
Golden Tickets And Paper Chains
~SERAPHINE~
The paper trembles in my hands.
Not because of the words printed on it—though those are certainly worth trembling over—but because my fingers won't stop shaking.
They've been doing this since I woke up alone in that massive bed, surrounded by luxury that didn't belong to me, in a house full of Alphas who should be my enemies but somehow aren't.
Tremor.
Twitch.
Tremor.
Four times each.
The pattern is familiar. Comforting, even, in the way broken things become comfortable when you've lived with them long enough.
I force myself to focus on the documents.
The first page is an official academy form—crisp white paper with the Ruthless Academy seal embossed in the corner, filled out in neat handwriting that definitely isn't mine.
Temporary Pack Placement Authorization, the header reads.
Below it, a series of checkboxes and signatures and bureaucratic language that makes my head spin.
Pack Name: Lawson
Pack Leader: Kai James Lawson
Additional Pack Members: Sage Wilder, Jett Maddox, Blaze Vega
Omega Designate: Seraphine Eastman
Duration: Temporary (30 days minimum)
Status: APPROVED
My toe taps against the floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Four times.
I can't stop staring at my name on that line.
Seraphine Eastman.
Right there, in black ink, officially registered as the Omega of a pack I've known for less than forty-eight hours. A pack that was sent here to kill me. A pack whose leader's family is responsible for the deaths of my parents.
And yet.
And yet.
The second page is a schedule.
My schedule, apparently—revised and reorganized to reflect my new status as a pack-claimed Omega.
Classes I've never been allowed to take are suddenly available.
Training sessions with actual instructors instead of the self-directed survival curriculum packless Omegas get shunted into.
Performance opportunities. Practice studio access.
Dance.
The word jumps out from the schedule like it's written in gold.
Performance Arts - Advanced Ballet (Tues/Thurs 2-4pm)
Contemporary Movement Workshop (Wed 10am-12pm)
Individual Studio Reservation - APPROVED
I've been trying to get individual studio time for three years.
Three years of requests denied, applications rejected, dreams deferred because packless Omegas don't get nice things, don't get opportunities, don't get to dance in proper studios with proper equipment because the academy has decided we're not worth the investment.
And now, suddenly, I have everything I've been begging for.
Just like that.
Because some Alphas signed a piece of paper.
"What does this mean?"
The question comes out smaller than I intend—confused, uncertain, the voice of someone who's been hurt too many times to trust good news without looking for the trap hidden inside.
I lift my head.
Ms. Chen is sitting across from me, behind a desk cluttered with papers and coffee mugs and the general debris of someone who cares more about her students than about maintaining a pristine workspace.
Her expression is warm—kind, even, in a way that makes my chest ache—but there's something else in her eyes.
Hope.
Hope for me.
It's almost harder to process than the documents.
"A pack submitted their request to have you as an Omega," she explains, leaning forward with the enthusiasm of someone delivering genuinely good news.
"The paperwork came through this morning—expedited processing, which is unusual, but apparently they have connections.
With this approval, you've been given a completely new schedule. "
She gestures at the papers still trembling in my hands.
"More importantly, you'll be permitted to participate in the Omega auditions."
My heart stutters.
Auditions.
The word echoes in my skull, bouncing off memories of ruined letters and rainy stages and a performance space hung with my own words like a gallery of humiliation.
"The auditions were rescheduled," Ms. Chen continues, apparently oblivious to my internal crisis.
"Multiple Omegas were injured in the townhouse fire—a terrible tragedy, but the administration finally acknowledged that the timing was inappropriate.
The auditions are now delayed by one week to accommodate recovery. "
One week.
Seven days.
The math happens automatically in my brain, calculating and recalculating, trying to make the numbers make sense.
Seven days is longer than thirty.
No—wait.
That's not right.
The auditions used to be scheduled for the end of the month. That would have been three weeks away. But now they're in seven days, which means...
"Since the auditions will no longer pertain to packless Omegas," Ms. Chen adds, and there's something almost gleeful in her voice, "the timeline is accelerated. Only pack-claimed Omegas are eligible now, which means a smaller pool of participants, which means faster processing."
Faster processing.
One week.
Seven days until I find out if I get to leave this nightmare.
A giggle escapes.
High, bright, completely inappropriate.
I clap my hand over my mouth, eyes going wide, feeling the familiar flush of embarrassment that always follows my uncontrolled outbursts.
But Ms. Chen just smiles.
Like my particular brand of chaos is something she's learned to accept rather than judge.
How?
How is any of this happening?
I woke up alone this morning.
The memory surfaces, still fresh, still tinged with the particular kind of disappointment that comes from expecting something and finding nothing.
The bed was empty.
Not just empty—cold. Like no one had been there for hours. Like whoever put me there walked away the moment I was settled and never looked back.
I'd lain there for longer than I should have, staring at that vaulted ceiling, counting the beams.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Waiting.
For what, I didn't know. A sound, maybe. A voice. Some indication that I wasn't alone in this massive house, that the alliance I'd offered before falling asleep had been accepted rather than dismissed.
But nothing came.
Eventually, I got up.
Found clothes laid out—not the pink pajamas from before, but an actual Ruthless Academy uniform in my size. Skirt, blouse, tie, the whole ensemble. Even the right shoes, which was somehow the detail that made me want to cry.
Someone had planned for this.
Someone had thought about what I'd need when I woke up.
But they hadn't stayed.
Hadn't left a note.
Hadn't done anything to indicate whether I was a guest or a prisoner or something in between.
So I gathered my stuff.
What little of it there was—Ro, mostly, who'd apparently been charging all night and woke with me, sensors blinking in that steady rhythm that meant online and functional and still here.
I changed into the uniform.
Left without saying anything to Sage or the others.
Didn't want to be a burden, didn't want to overstay whatever strange welcome they'd extended, didn't want to face the awkwardness of morning-after conversations when the "night before" had been me passing out mid-sentence after nearly dying.
School was the only place I expected to go to.
The one constant in my life—the daily routine of classes and survival and pretending to be fine while everything fell apart around me. Even without a home, even without anywhere to sleep tonight, I knew I could at least show up for roll call.
Keep moving.
Keep surviving.
Figure out the rest later.
I didn't think past where I'd live or stay now that my townhome was ash and memory.
Didn't have the energy to plan, to strategize, to do anything other than put one foot in front of the other and hope the universe would stop kicking me long enough to catch my breath.
And then Ms. Chen summoned me the moment I checked into class.
And now I'm sitting here, holding paperwork that says I've been claimed, staring at a schedule that says I can dance, and I don't know what to do with any of it.
"The pack," I say slowly, my voice still shaky. "They... they actually did this? Filed the paperwork? Made it official?"
"Overnight, apparently." Ms. Chen's eyebrow arches—impressed despite herself. "The administration doesn't usually move that fast, but someone made some calls. Pulled some strings. By the time I arrived this morning, your file had already been updated."
Overnight.
While I was sleeping.
While I was floating in darkness, dreaming of my parents, completely unaware that anyone was doing anything on my behalf.
They took care of it.
Without asking me.
Without waking me up to discuss.
Without making me fight for something that should have been mine by right.
Why?
The question burns in my chest.
Why would they do this?
We're enemies.
I told Kai we're enemies.
I told him I'd help him destroy his father, and then we'd go back to trying to kill each other. That was the deal. That was the agreement.
But this—the paperwork, the schedule, the opportunity handed to me on a silver platter—
This feels like more than an alliance.
This feels like care.
And I don't know what to do with that.
"If I do the audition," I ask, forcing my brain to focus on practical matters instead of emotional spirals, "what happens if I do well?"
Ms. Chen's face transforms.
Beaming.
Actually, genuinely beaming, like I've just asked the question she's been waiting to answer all morning.
"If you perform well—and I have every confidence you will, Seraphine, you're the most talented dancer I've seen in my twenty years at this academy—you'll immediately receive a scholarship to the dance school of your choice."
The words land like physical blows.
One after another.
Scholarship.
Dance school.
Choice.